The Art of Passion
by Little Obsessions
Summary: Mr and Mrs Addams argue, with artistic consequences he should have expected. Kinky, heed the rating. None of this belongs to me, it belongs to Paramount and the Tee and Charles Addams foundation. The Addams Family


She sighed slightly, feeling as if he'd truly never give up on this one. Outside, the clouds were dark and grey and Pubert was pottering about the house, miniature flame thrower in hand, ruining any upholstery he could get his hands on.

"No," she sighed, shaking her head, "I don't want anymore."

"Wednesday is grown, as is Pugsley and Pubert is not far behind them."  
"And all of this I know," she raised and irritated eye brow, "I am their Mother."

He smiled ruefully, "All I am saying is that it's possible."

"No Gomez, you are not."

This was one of those rare times that the Addamses found themselves arguing in a heated way they were not accustomed to. They very rarely argued and when they disagreed, it was with pleasant respect for each other's ideals. Which were, on the whole, often identical. However, she found herself irritated with him.

"You are saying you want another child," she laced her hands together calmly, "And I don't."

"I don't see the problem," he shook his head, "We didn't expect Pubert and we adore him, look at the joy he brought us."

"Isn't that the point," she laughed slightly, "We didn't plan him…he just happened."

Gomez frowned at her and she realised how harsh she had sounded. It was one of the few times in life Morticia Addams had sounded rash and unmeasured.

"It is simply…"

She folded her hands and sighed into silence, it wasn't like he didn't know.

"What?"  
"Well, another child was never in the plans…"

"No," he nodded his head and laughed, "But children-"

"You love children," she said quietly and stared at him.

"And you don't?"

She stared at him for a moment, knowing he already knew the answer.

"I love _our_ children," she answered, staring at his reflection in the mirror as he turned his back on her.

"But not children." He looked more than disappointed.

She shook her head and lowered her head, "I can't do it, think of the age we will be when our child is older. We will be old when Pubert becomes an adult, imagine another infant."

She stood up and came to stand behind him, wrapping her arms round his waist and pressing herself to his back. She rubbed her face, cat-like, on the rough material of his suit.

"I love nothing more than creating life with you," he muttered, "I adore our children."  
"I know," she whispered, "So do I. But darling, think on it. We will be old. I want to spend the rest of my life with you exclusively, I don't want to be spending the rest of my time raising children."

She smiled, "Mornings in bed, afternoons in bed…you understand?"

"No," he muttered and dislodging himself, walked from the room.

It was one of the few times that she was left feeling she had been in the wrong and yet she felt perfectly justified. Sitting down in the old chair she knitted her fingers together and stared out into the dark. A nice, pleasant velvet midnight. She would never be angry at him…but there were other ways to win Mr Addams over.

Morticia Addams chose things with care. Everything with distinctive, articulated care. Nothing was ever rushed and this long standing ritual was no different. The house was quiet, spare the frequent creek of a house in ruin. Pubert was safely chained in bed, Mamma near comatose with the old chloroform trick. Gomez had taken to the west dungeons, petulantly irritating the house with his trains. She sighed, running her hands along the silk of the garment hanging before her. She was always capable of waiting out her time.

In the dungeon, the one that no one but them knew about, she selected a few things merely with her eyes and settled herself in the throne like chair in the centre, crossing her stocking covered legs and arching her fingers.

Gomez had made his way up the stairs, finally done with is trains and in firm belief that he had been rather out of order and would need to apologize to his wife. However, as it stood she was not in their bedroom, nor the library, nor the frequented den. With a surging heart and then a crashing sense of doom, he realised that there was only one place she could be. And there was no point in avoiding her for it would simply mean more of her wrath and less of that unavoidably dire pleasure.

"I thought you'd be here," he muttered, closing the heavy door of the old dungeon behind them. She looked up from the chair and many memories, both romantic and masochistic flooded back to him. He shivered with a distinctive quiver of pleasure as he watched the reflection from the fire dance in her black eyes.

"You know me well," she answered, finally raising her head to stare at him. He smiled but she did not return it.

"What's the game?"

She smiled inwardly, because his impatience was naively endearing but she would never let it show. It would tip the balance.

"Game?"  
She stood up, the miles of silk from her unnecessarily ostentatious robe fanning out behind her. She came to stand in front of him, her face unreadable. If he looked just at the right angle, without being entirely obvious, he could see the pearly skin of her décolletage. Both obscenely exposed and demurely hidden under the black silk. It drove him insane and already, small beads of perspiration were growing on his forehead. He tried desperately to remain under control.

"Irritated?"

He nodded and smiled calmly. She leaned forward, her lips grazing his jaw.

"Good."

The whisper of her breath on the skin there was excruciating and his body reacted in the age-old way. She smiled, for she was near enough to feel it. Control was so important, especially the control of desire. She could easily have allowed him to ravish her here, but instead she decided she would torture herself, as well as him.

"take of your shirt," she ordered, turning away from him, leaving the space cruel and unwelcoming. He removed his fine tie, discarding it on the cobbled and slimy stones, then removed his crisp shirt. She stared with appreciation, her tongue slipping over her lips.

"I want you to go there," she muttered, pointing to a shadier end of the room, where the fire light danced viciously and the instruments on the walls were thrown into horrific light by unsure flames. He looked at her in disbelief; evidently, she wanted to teach him a lesson.

"Do it, Gomez," she ordered as he moved across the room.

He did as he was asked, the disbelief of his luck washing over him. He knew the routine for this, and though it was sparse, he had never forgotten the requirements for such an accoutrement.

He watched her unfurling the heavy link chains from the rusting hooks that held them in place and the scraping, clanking noise was almost unbearable as the large chunks of wood lowered from the place against the wall.

"Spread your limbs," she muttered. He was forced to rest against the smooth wood at an oddly uncomfortable angle as she strapped the leather around his wrists and then bent gracefully to strap his ankles. Then she moved to the chains again and tugged at them. Immediately, the bottom of his stomach lurched as the cross banged against the wall viciously, impacting on his spine. He cried out unwillingly.

Morticia ran her hands along the wood, smooth with years of use, and looked at him.

"You remember when I found this?" She questioned.

"Of course," he muttered through gritted teeth, anger rising in him due to the horrifying pain in his back, "If I recall correctly, you said a St. Andrews cross was 'the perfect means for torture'."

"In the pain I imagine you're in, I find it hard to believe such mental retention," she reached up to kiss him hard, violently demanding access to his mouth. He got carried away and he should have known from years of this game, but he never heeded such lessons. She pulled away immediately.

"But my darling," she sullied away as he groaned and struggled against the bonds and his unreasonably tight trousers, "You are correct."

Sweat was coursing down his chest, making him gleam in the dark and momentarily, she was compelled to stare at the delicious olive colour, the dark patch of hair on his chest and abdomen that disappeared into his trousers. But concentration was necessary, in fact, vital if she were to enjoy this as much as him.

She knew he was watching her, so she decided a voyeuristic display was what was needed. She ran her hands over each whip, thumbscrew, riding crop and chain until she landed on the inevitable. Caressing it with a fine hand, the only noise the desperate panting of a man in the throws of desire, she took it from the wall. He groaned as he witnessed her choice.

"Not that," he almost whimpered.

She laughed cruelly and unfurled the whip with an experienced flourish. And this, this was one thing she was truly experienced at. Though for this he was to blame, he had made her an expert of the bullwhip and how he had reaped his rewards.

She brought her hand down with a startling crack, the tail of the whip mere millimetres from his athletic shoulder. He winced.

"You remember how you taught me?" She questioned, caressing the handle of the whip in an entirely unsavoury way.

"I regret it…" he bit out.

Suddenly, the horrifying burn of leather on skin ripped through him and a cry flew from his mouth, only followed by an unwilling cry of desire and the feeling of being on the periphery of tipping over the carnal edge. He breathed heavily, opening his eyes to find her standing in front of him, her tongue tracing the welt on his chest delicately. Cooling it with an absurd care as the tricking blood coloured her mouth.

"You-will-kill-me," he writhed against her, immensely aroused by the blood on her mouth, "Let me down."

She laughed again, kissing his neck, biting gently in the places she knew drove him wild.

"No," she stepped back swiftly and brought the whip down again.

"Please," he cried, "Morticia, my darling, please."

"Do you love me?" she muttered, fiddling casually with the belt of her robe. He was tempted, tactlessly to say that he would love her if she untied her robe but he knew better and honestly, respected her more.

"Always," he struggled against his bonds, "At least take off my trousers…"

She reached out her hands, resting teasingly on his waist band. The she giggled delightfully as he breathed too early with relief.

"Mhmm, no," she smiled and stepped away.

"Don't you want me?"

"What do you think?"  
"Touché," he nodded, his desire subsiding from the lack of torture, more concentrating on her beauty and wonder. She saw this and was not amused by it.

"Don't get complacent." She picked up the whip again and this time brought it down hard across his shoulder missing his eye by inches. He screamed this time, the pleasure overriding the pain so much so that he found himself tumbling into oblivion - angry that it was without her.

She watched him, just as if she were on top of him and smiled with delight - for she though it the most gratifying sight in the world as he writhed violently against his bonds and finally calmed. He looked up eventually, the sated look of anger in his eyes as his coital relief washed over him.

"What a petulant boy," she smiled, sullying towards him and placing a soft kiss on his mouth, "But I rather enjoyed it."  
"It's hardly fair that I get all the fun," he smiled languidly and rested his head back, "You haven't exhausted me."

"I beg to differ," she laughed slowly, "You look sated."  
"my dear, I am."

"Untie me, my love, so I can make love to you."

This remark caught her off guard and she looked at him curiously, with her painfully intelligent eyes.

"For that is all I want to do," he continued as she unbuckled the leather straps. He slid to the floor, his body weak from such corporal punishment and such exhausting pleasure. He could barely stand, the welts on his chest and bruises on his back almost clouding his entire thoughts.

"You illustrated your point perfectly," he whispered, finally raising himself to his feet. She reached down slowly, kindly and unbuttoned his trousers and allowed him time to step out of them. He walked cautiously to the chair in the centre of the dungeon and sat on it. He patted his knee caddishly as she came toward him, standing now in supplication.

"I think you've earned this," she whispered, handing him the belt of her robe. He tugged at it softly, and that was all that was required. She smiled slightly and straddled his legs. The contact alone was enough to make him realise she was all he needed.

"I love you, Gomez," she whispered, hardly moving at all.

"And I you, my love," he answered, holding her against his bloodied chest, "And you illustrated your point perfectly."

That after all, had been her goal.

She woke as the sun cascaded into the room and thought only of the fact that they should still be in the dungeons. Yet she was lying, entangled in her husband and in their bed, modestly dresses in her nightgown, Gomez in ruby coloured pyjamas.

"You fell asleep in my arms, my darling," he suddenly muttered and she hadn't realised he was awake, "I carried you to bed."

"Thank you," she whispered, moving closer to him.

"Cara Mia," he whispered, "You were right yesterday, we're happy, I'm happy. We don't need any more children. "  
"Happily miserable," she muttered as he pulled the sheets over her and tightened his arms around her. Nothing had ever felt safer.

"of course," she smiled cruelly, "You needed some convincing."  
"Well," he reached out for a cigar, lighting it and taking a deep puff, "It would never have been as fun had I not."

"Not at all," she motioned to the cigar, "You didn't have one last night, after…?"

"It was late," he shrugged, " I needed to sleep. You did rather tire me out, quite insatiable."  
"Well," she laughed gently, "It is my art."  
"And what an art it is!"

Yours,

M

xx


End file.
